


By All Means

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ads and Milly too but they say like nothing so I didn't count them, GERLONSO AS COMIC RELIEF INSTEAD OF ANGST???????, M/M, Roman Holiday AU, my god that never happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What the FUCK."<br/>“DON’T WALK IN ON PEOPLE LIKE THAT."<br/>“IT’S THE FUCKING LIVING ROOM."<br/>“IT’S ME FUCKING HOUSE.”<br/>“WHY AM I IN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE?”<br/>“BECAUSE YOU PASSED OUT ON THE ROAD LAST NIGHT AND I SAW YOU AND I WAS TRYING TO BE FUCKING DECENT.”<br/>“YOU DIDN’T NEED TO BE FUCKING DECENT.”<br/>“I REALISE THAT NOW.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	By All Means

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts), [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts), [aliccolo (guti)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/gifts).



> \- If you haven't watched Roman Holiday PLS WATCH IT it's lovely  
> \- This is set in the present but I moved them to about thirty so they look like [little](http://www.laststicker.com/i/cards/4/45.jpg) [kids](http://www.laststicker.com/i/cards/41/250.jpg) (ok not really but)

 Jamie Carragher would have screamed into his pillow, if his pillow hadn’t probably cost more than the GDP of a small country, and if it wouldn’t have elicited the disapproving frowns of the dozen people in the room with him. Instead, he scowled at Stevie, who gave him something between an exasperated smirk and Edvard Munch’s _The Scream_.  

“If you come anywhere within ten feet of me with that schedule, Alonso, I’m going to kill you personally,” he said through gritted teeth at the man standing next to Stevie.

Xabi gave him the irritating smile of a man who knew how invaluable (and pretty) he was, making him immune to empty threats. “Don’t think too much about it, James,” he said smoothly, flipping over the page on his clipboard. “It’s quite a light schedule tomorrow. A nine o’clock with the reporters and then a couple of La Torre brothers at one. Also, Hector DeCavalcante’s consigliere is visiting from New York, so we might squeeze something in with him. Finally, Liverpool are playing at eight.”

Jamie snorted. “What kind of name is _Hector_?”

Xabi raised an eyebrow. “What kind of nickname is _Jamie_?”

Jamie’s scowl deepened. If his dad hadn’t trusted Xabi so much, and if he hadn’t happened to be joined at the hip to his best friend, he would’ve strangled the bloody Spaniard years ago. Unfortunately, the rules of society dictated that he had to be civil, even though he had no doubt that being uncivil would be even more satisfying.

Stevie, not particularly keen on watching his boyfriend die at the hands of his boss’s son, waved his hands in the universal gesture for time-out.

“Xabi, be nice. James, calm down. This is expected of you, you know that.”

“It’s Jamie,” Jamie muttered mutinously, folding his arms and giving all of them the stink-eye. “And I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Hardly anyone in our line of work did, James,” Stevie pointed out. “Now stop being a whiny little shit and settle down, will you? Xabi worked very hard to line up this crap for you.”

Jamie’s eyes wandered over to the window ledge. It was getting dark in Rome, remnants of sunlight filtering lazily across the buildings down below. “Stevie,” he said absently, his eyes still fixed outside as an idea crossed his mind. “You’re right. I’ve got a full day tomorrow. I should get some sleep.”

Stevie exchanged a relieved glance with Xabi. “That’s good to hear. You’ve taken your pills?”

“Yeah, I’ve taken my dad-thinks-I-can’t-take-care-of-myself pills.” Jamie rolled his eyes. His father’s insistence on sleeping pills was something he’d never understood. Just because he had trouble sleeping thanks to all the men he’d killed didn’t mean everyone in his family did too, although he had to admit that there were a few nights after Liverpool played that they’d come in handy.

“Right. We’ll leave you in peace now. Ads, Milly, you two are on duty tonight.”

“No,” Jamie interrupted, pointing at the door. “Ads is always singing under his breath and Milly’s thoughts are so obtusely boring that I can hear them out loud drilling into my head. They can stand outside.”

Xabi opened his mouth, but Stevie cut across him, fearful that conciliatory!Jamie would disappear if they got into another argument. “All right, we’ll do it your way. Ads, Milly, outside. The rest of you, come along. Have a good night’s sleep, James.”

“Jamie,” Jamie echoed, but he was grinning as they closed the door.  

“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Stevie asked Xabi as they walked towards their room, padded footfalls echoing mutely around the grand villa.

“I’m going to save my ‘I told you so’ for after it happens,” said Xabi.

 

-

 

Gary Neville tossed his cards onto the desk with a huff and leaned back in his chair. “Right, gents, that’s me out,” he said, ignoring the eye rolls of the other men sat around the table.

“No kidding,” Scholesy drawled, reaching around to cuff Gary on the back of his head; no mean feat for someone as small as he was. “Sure you can afford that hundred, mate?”

“I’ll get there,” Gary said defensively, gathering up his things and stuffing his pockets with the night’s meagre earnings. “But for now, sleep beckons. Giggsy’s stupid appointment is at sodding nine in the morning.”

“My appointments are not stupid,” Giggsy scoffed. “Nine is a perfectly legitimate time. And if a mobster’s son can wake up on time, so can you.”

“What is he, even, twelve or something?” Gary complained, leaning against the door frame to look back at the sorry bunch. “Why is a mobster’s kid doing his media work for him? Why is a mobster talking to the media? Why are there _Scouse mobsters_?”

“Fuck’s sake, Gaz, did you not read any of my briefing?” Giggsy snatched up a conveniently-placed ball of rolled-up paper and chucked it at Gary’s head. Gary just managed to duck out of the way and stuck his tongue out at Giggsy. “The Carraghers are trying to put on a nice, we’ve-reformed face for the public eye. James is the least murderous of the lot, so they’re parading him around for a bit. Also he’s, like, our age or something. Think Michael Corleone before he started going all shooting people’s eyes out.”

“Imagine a Scouse Godfather,” Butty smirked. “‘Ah’m gonna make ‘im an awffer ‘e can’ refuse.’”

“What was _that_?” Phil said incredulously.  

“My incredible Scouse accent,” Butty shrugged. “I learnt it from too many John Bishop videos. D’you want to hear another one?”

Gary called Butty something rude and scarpered before he could hear ‘leave the gun, take the cannoli’ similarly butchered.

The night was getting old as he stumbled outside the pub, slightly more drunk than he’d thought he was. He’d put a hand on the wall and was righting himself when he caught sight of another man on the opposite side of the road. Normally he wouldn’t have been bothered, except the bloke was quite literally _on_ the road, becoming far friendlier with the yellow line that bordered the street than he should have. As a reporter, Gary had his requisite share of heartlessness, but even the most heartless of them all (Scholesy) wouldn’t have left someone to be run over by the next passing vehicle. “Bollocks,” Gary cursed under his breath before jogging over, seizing the man under his arms and dragging him to the safety of the pavement.

“You’re a lot heavier than I thought,” he muttered, propping him up against the wall. The man was completely unresponsive and vaguely familiar, although Gary couldn’t seem to place him. He looked slightly younger than Gary, and the short, sandy-brown hair suggested someone of military bearing, while the creases on his forehead suggested something stressful. Gary looked at the way his chapped lips puckered a little and found himself wondering, for some inexplicable reason, what the colour of his eyes were.

His eye travelled down to check what the bloke was wearing. The first, standout thing was a battered red jacket embossed with the letters _LFC_ on the chest. “Oh, dear god,” said Gary, fighting the involuntary and totally expected urge to throw up. “You’re one of them.”

He picked up a stick and prodded hesitantly at the jacket until it gave way, falling open to reveal a very expensive-looking suit. It was the sort of thing that Becks would have bought if he hadn’t been a dirt-poor reporter, and it didn’t go with the military look that the man’s face had given off. “Who the hell are you?” Gary murmured, wondering if he ought to slap the man to wake him up to ask. Granted, there were probably rules against slapping unconscious strangers that would land him in unsavoury places.

The man stirred slightly, his mouth dropping open a fraction. “Mate?” Gary asked hopefully. A taxi crawled by and he stuck his arm out to flag it down. It was nearing two in the morning and he was surprised that anyone was still around. “Look, we’ll get you home, all right? Rich fella like you shouldn’t be lying on the streets, someone’s bound to mug you off. I just need to know where you live.”

The taxi had coasted to a stop and the driver was looking at Gary impatiently. Gary held up a finger and turned back to the man. “Mate,” he said again, prodding him with the stick. “I need to know where you live.”

“Mmmhhh,” said the man, which was rude.

Gary scrunched his face up. The driver was yelling things at him that mustn’t have meant anything nice, and if he didn’t get in he doubted that another taxi would come by. “All right, you twat,” he said to the bloke, seizing him again and trying not to wince when he came into contact with the grotesque jacket as he bundled him into the backseat of the taxi. “Via Varese. Slow as you’d like. Give this bloke a chance to wake up and tell me where the sodding hell he stays.”

“Cazzo Inglese,” said the driver. Gary chose not to check google translate.

It took a half an hour to get to Gary’s apartment, a ramshackle number just behind the Termini in a neighbourhood meant for backpackers and poorly-paid international reporters. The man hadn’t said anything besides half-formed words that sounded nothing like an address. “Right, now.” Gary stuffed a fistful of change into the Italian’s hand and gestured vaguely in another direction. “I want you to take him wherever he wants to go when he wakes up, yeah?”

The driver stared at him. “You fucking joking,” he said.

“Oh, so you _now_ can speak English.” Gary tried very hard to prevent his fist from going anywhere near the man. “Just – wait till he wakes up, yeah, then send him wherever he wants to go? Please? I need to sleep, I’ve got a fucking meeting in six hours – ”

“I not taking him anywhere, fuck. I need to go home.”

“Well, so do I,” said Gary, his voice bordering on desperation. “And I’m not bringing some Scouse twat with me.”

“Two ways, Inglese,” said the driver, shoving two fingers in Gary’s face in the markedly more impolite manner. “One, you take him. Two, I push him onto the pavement right now.”

Gary gave the driver a glare that would have felled a tree, then transferred it to the unconscious man crumpled in a heap against the car door. “Fuck,” he growled, grabbing the jacket for the third time that night and giving it a yank. The man mumbled again as he tumbled into Gary’s arms, sinking against him like an oddly comfortable blanket. Gary dragged him out and snatched the extra cash out of the driver’s hand, taking some measure of satisfaction at the sight of his sinking face. “Well, then, fuck off. Thanks for nothing.”

“A fanabla,” said the driver, and sped off, leaving Gary alone in the dark holding a rich man he didn’t know. A rich man who was trying to eat his collar. Gary smacked the man’s face away, horrified.

His apartment was on the third floor and the lift was conveniently broken, which meant that Gary had to half-carry, half-lug the man up six flights of never-ending steps. By the time he got to the door, he was close to passing out himself. “You, mate, are in serious need of losing some weight,” he muttered, untangling himself from the man’s arms to slide his key into the door.

Just before they went in, Gary paused and had another look at the man. That shit was not getting into his house. He took hold of the jacket and pulled it off the man, trying to ignore the corded muscles he could feel under the fabric. Then he crumpled the jacket and threw it, with more pleasure than he should probably have, down the corridor. With any luck, the janitor would put it where it belonged tomorrow.

“Stevehhhh,” said the man. Gary swung his head around and stared. The man’s eyes were still closed, but he was on all fours and seemed to be crawling towards something that didn’t exist. He ended up bumping his head on the leg of the sofa in the living room, an occurrence that would normally have made Gary laugh, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he now felt like an exasperated parent.

“Stop that, you bastard,” said Gary, sprinting over and nudging him with his foot. The man collapsed with a pathetic groan. If it was physically possible, Gary’s eyes would have rolled out of his head by now. “Come on, let’s get you onto the sofa,” he said instead, which he finally succeeded in doing through a mixture of pulling, pushing and possibly kicking. The man’s head lolled onto Gary’s arm and he jerked away instinctively.

“You just stay like that, yeah? I’m going to brush my teeth and sleep. I have a sodding mobster to interview in the morning, for fuck’s sake.”

He was midway through showering when he heard a thump from outside. Gary cursed, grabbed a towel, and raced out only to find that the man had located his bed. Now he was all wrapped up in the cosy red blankets, snug as a rat out of the sewer. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Gary muttered. It was four a.m., he was standing in the middle of his room dripping wet and wearing a towel, having been kicked out of bed by a stranger who supported Liverpool. And he had to go to work in about four hours.

“Hhhhh,” said the man happily, snuggling up with Traffie. Gary blanched.

“You’re not having him,” he said sharply, but the man completely ignored him.

There was only one thing to be done. Gary gave up completely and sank into the comforting embrace of the sofa, not even bothering to turn the bathroom lights off. “Sod your team and sod you, mate,” he yawned at the man in his bed. “May the spirit of Sir Bobby punch me the next time I try to help a fucking Scouser.” The only thing that gave him some measure of comfort was that the man would get a little bit of comeuppance when he woke up.

 

-

 

“I told you so,” said Xabi. Stevie gritted his teeth and tried his best not to punch him.

They were standing in the doorway of Jamie’s former room. The sheets had been tied together to form a gross imitation of a Tintin escape plan; a rope that extended from the window ledge to the garden down below. Ads had been religiously plugged into his iPod, Milly had presumably bored himself to sleep, and neither of them had heard anything.

“What are we going to do?” Stevie wailed, except he didn’t wail because that wasn’t what heads of security for mob families did. Except he did.

“Here are our options.” Xabi stuck his fingers out and ticked them off one by one, as if he was listing the choices for dinner and not the disappearance/escape/possible kidnapping of his boss’s son. “Number one, we tell the boss, he tears up Italy looking for him, and Ads and Milly probably die. Number two, we tell the police, they remain incompetent, the boss finds out, and all of us probably die. Number three, we pretend he’s sick, cancel everything, find him by the end of the day, and everyone doesn’t die.”

“I would prefer not to die,” Stevie said dumbly.

“I figured,” said Xabi.

“Right. So we pretend that nothing happened and he’s just caught a cold or summat?” Stevie twitched two fingers to signal Hendo to pull up the sheets, lest anyone had a look and put two and two together. “How are we going to find him by the end of the day, though? He could be anywhere.”

“You’re forgetting one thing.” Xabi had that smirk on where he’d thought something that everyone else was too stupid to realise. It was an embarrassingly frequent occurrence and only intensified Stevie’s violent urges.

“Don’t be yourself, Alonso, and just spit it out, will you?” Stevie grumbled, understandably sick and tired of mysteries for today. Xabi’s smirk widened. Stevie hated the Spanish.

“Liverpool’s playing tonight.”

 

-

 

Jamie opened his eyes and found himself in hell.

He barely remembered anything from last night; just climbing down the window and stumbling down the road until those fucking pills had kicked in and he’d conked out. All of a sudden he was in a barely-comfortable single bed, the sun was peeking through the curtains, and the blankets had –

“Are those fucking _devils_?” he yelped, pushing the blankets off him like they were contaminated (which they _were_ ). Manchester United’s stupid little mascots winked back up at him conspiratorially. _You slept with us_ , they mocked. Jamie shuddered and had a look at what he had been hugging the whole night. It was a stuffed teddy bear wearing United’s kit from last season. “You’re joking me,” he shouted and jumped out of bed. He spun round and came face to face with a signed picture of a smiling Sir Alex Ferguson telling some bloke called Gary to keep on supporting the best club in the world. “What the _fuck_ – ”

It was _framed_ and everything, Jesus. Jamie cursed and stumbled uncertainly to the doorway, studiously ignoring the other pictures that lined the wall, including but not limited to all of United’s Champions League wins and painful reminders of victories over Liverpool. “PleaseGodtellmeIdidn’tsleepwithaUnitedfan,” he chanted under his breath as he spotted what looked like a sofa. The curtains here were closed and it was dark in the room, so he crossed over to the wall and fumbled for the light. He flicked it on and screamed.

The man on the sofa – the _naked man on the sofa_ – woke up and screamed as well, his hand involuntarily reaching for the towel that had fallen off and dragging it across his body. Jamie put one hand over his face and the other in front of him in the universal sign for stop. “What the FUCK,” he yelled, completely done with this earth.

“DON’T WALK IN ON PEOPLE LIKE THAT,” the other man yelled back. Jamie could hear some rustling and hoped desperately that the sound was the man putting on clothes and not coming any closer.

“IT’S THE FUCKING LIVING ROOM,” he hollered, trying to remove the image seared into his brain forever. It wasn’t working, and the miniscule part of his brain that thought it actually wasn’t bad and wanted to keep it wasn’t helping either. Jamie felt like he needed to stress the ‘miniscule’ bit.

“IT’S ME FUCKING HOUSE.”

“WHY AM I IN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE?”

“BECAUSE YOU PASSED OUT ON THE ROAD LAST NIGHT AND I SAW YOU AND I WAS TRYING TO BE FUCKING DECENT.”

“YOU DIDN’T NEED TO BE FUCKING DECENT.”

“I REALISE THAT NOW.” A hand swatted at his face. Jamie yelped and uncovered his eyes to find an unamused, dishevelled Manc staring at him. His dark hair was uncombed and fell across his forehead, partially obscuring the frustrated crease in the middle of his eyebrows. He had unsettlingly penetrating brown eyes that seemed to see straight through Jamie, and his flat mouth was twisted into a frown. At least he had clothes on now, a cheap shirt and suit jacket, although they hung loosely on him like they’d been badly cut and Jamie could still see how ridiculously skinny he was. “I fell asleep after my shower because I was knackered from dragging your heavy arse up three flights. And you took the sodding bed, so I had to make do with the sofa. No fucking thanks for that.”

Jamie had never been yelled at by anyone other than Stevie in his life, much less been talked to this way, and he suddenly felt very small. It was a rather different world when people respected you because they didn’t want to die. “I’m sorry,” he said in a tiny voice, retreating a little. The other man seemed to soften.

“S’all right,” he said roughly, turning to grab his belt. “Couldn’t leave a rich-looking bloke like you on the street, even if you supported the worst team.”

Jamie reached a hand to his collar and suddenly realised his absence of jacket. “What did you do to my jacket?” he screeched in an octave that was really quite embarrassing. “That was my favourite bloody jacket!”

“It was ugly as fuck, and I’m not letting anything like that in my house,” the man retorted, picking up his watch before dropping it with a curse. “Jesus, is that the time? Fucking _hell_ , I’m so late, it’s over, Giggsy’s going to kill me – ”

“I want my jacket back, you son of a bitch!” Jamie yelled, not giving a damn about the man’s career.

“It’s probably in the trash where it belongs,” the man said, trying to stuff a million things into his bag at once. “What’s your name again?”

“Jamie,” said Jamie. “Jamie Car – ”

“Right, Jamie, you sit here like a good boy until I get back and we’ll figure out what to do with you. I’ll only be an hour. All right?”

“Sod this,” Jamie said to the door that clicked shut as the other man ran out. “I’m not waiting in a room full of Eric fucking Cantonas telling me to fuck a seagull.”

 

-

 

“Well, well, well,” Giggsy drawled as Gary burst into the room, out of breath and obviously out of shape. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“I _swear_ I didn’t miss it, Giggsy,” Gary panted. “I was just. Late getting back, is all. It took longer than expected.”

“Oh, really?” Giggsy shared a conspiratorial look with Butty, who was sat in the corner eating a sandwich that looked really good. Gary’s stomach grumbled. “James was interesting, then?”

“Super interesting,” Gary lied, perching himself on the edge of the desk. “Fascinating interview. Lots of nice scoops about mob life and stuff.”

“What sort of scoops?” Giggsy steepled his fingers and looked at Gary with interest. Butty smirked into his sandwich.

“Uhhhhhhh.” Gary was painfully conscious of the fact that the two of them could see the cogs in his brain thinking. “He talked about how the Carraghers were intent on changing their image and how they weren’t really mobsters.”

“So basically what I told you last night,” Giggsy pointed out.

“And, and, and. He also talked a bit about how his family functioned; what his brother did, what his dad did, and how he didn’t drop horse heads around in bed.”

“Mm. Very good.” Seemingly satisfied, Giggsy looked back down at his broadsheet. With an imperceptible sigh of relief, Gary turned to go, only to be halted by Giggsy calling his name. “Hold up a bit, Gary lad. Last question. How did he look?”

“What?”

“How did he look?” Giggsy repeated, impatiently drumming his pen on the edge of his desk. “Was he a little peaky?”

“He was fine. Why d’you ask?”

“I dunno. I’d have thought if he had been laid up in bed with a stomach flu so serious he had to cancel all his appointments today, he would’ve looked a little less than fine.”

Butty howled.

“Wha – ” Gary crossed back and snatched the newspaper out of Giggsy’s hand. _JAMES CARRAGHER TAKEN SICK, CONFINED TO BED, MEETING WITH PRESS POSTPONED_ stared at him in big block letters, as mocking as Scholesy could get after a bad round of FIFA.

“Oh,” said Gary, because he had nothing else to say. Butty grinned at him and waved his sandwich around in the most annoying-prick fashion he could manage.

“I would have forgiven the not-knowing he has two brothers,” said Giggsy, “and even the completely made-up interview, but it’s eleven and your stomach grumbled, which means you haven’t eaten anything for breakfast, and Gary Neville not eating is unbelievable, even in an AU.” 

“Unbelievable,” echoed Butty, as if he was trying to win Twat of the Year.

Gary didn’t lean over and hit Butty. Gary didn’t even lean over and take a bite out of Butty’s sandwich. Gary had flipped the newspaper over and was staring, his brown eyes wider than the gap between United and Liverpool last season, at the picture accompanying the report. It had been taken fairly recently – the caption informed him that it had been last week in Spain – and revealed a man of about thirty, with short sandy-brown hair, an expensive-looking suit, and eyes that Gary had discovered this morning were a sort of shimmering sea-green.

“Mate,” he said, poking Giggsy with the paper. “Is this him?”

Giggsy rolled his eyes. “Yes, you idiot. You’d have known if you’d read that stupid file I sent over.”

“Lost it in my inbox,” Gary replied automatically, not able to tear his eyes off the picture. “Listen, Giggsy. How much do I owe you from poker last night again?”

Giggsy looked it up in his little black book. “Ninety six, although along with last week that makes one hundred thirty four. I swear, you and Phil are the worst players ever. Good for all the rest of us, of course, but honestly, did your dad never teach you cards or are the Nevilles just naturally bad – ”

“Shut up and hear me out, Giggsy,” Gary cut him off. “What would you give me for an exclusive, one-on-one interview with this lad Carragher here?”

Giggsy and Butty snorted at the same time, which added another bullet point to the list of reasons that Phil was keeping on why they were actually the same person. “For that, mate,” said Giggsy, grinning broadly, “I’d give you the world.”

“Seriously, Giggsy. Front page exclusive. Pictures, even, if Scholesy isn’t too busy burning down the Coliseum or his choice of human scum today. How much’ll it be?”

“Five hundred,” Giggsy said at last, steepling his fingers again. “And even a proper bonus, while we’re at it. Butty, we have extra cash for bonuses lying around?”

“More than they need to know,” Butty chirped cheerfully through a mouthful of ham.

“But if you don’t get it, then you owe me double what you do now. And no borrowing from Scholesy, or Becks. Or Phil, come to that, although I don’t think he’s got anything at all, the poor boy.”

“Deal.” Gary reached over and shook Giggsy’s offered hand with such confidence that even the Welshman was starting to get a little suspicious.

“Do you know something I don’t, Neville?”

“Oh, not at all,” Gary replied breezily, giving Giggsy a smile that would have made a Spaniard across town proud. “I’m in the dark just as the rest of you.” And he wafted out of the office with an air that suggested the complete opposite. Giggsy looked at Butty.

“Off his rocker,” said Butty.

“Quite,” Giggsy agreed. “By the way, you do know you’re wearing oven gloves on your feet, yeah?”

“I know,” said Butty.

 

-

 

Gary began to panic approximately five minutes away from his apartment. _That was stupid, Neville._ For all he knew, James – Jamie – wouldn’t even be there anymore. That was the problem with locking someone inside an apartment; they were also built to be unlocked from the inside. And he had a landline, which meant that Jamie could very well have just called his mafia bro people things (what did they even call them, Christ?) and hightailed it the fuck out of there. While getting two mafia bro people things to wait at Gary’s apartment and gun him down the moment he stepped in.

Which didn’t sound ideal. As dissatisfying as his life was, there were still some things to be ticked off the bucket list, and a pitch invasion slash running sixty yards down the Anfield touchline to celebrate a United win would be quite difficult when your body was riddled with hundreds of semi-automatic bullets.

“Please let him still be there,” he said just before opening the door, then took a deep breath and walked in. There was no one in the room. The bed had been made, evidently by a person who had never before made beds in his life, the shower had been messily used (as had his… towel), and in what Gary guessed had been an act of petulant revenge, one of his United jackets had been bundled up and thrown onto the ground. But there was no one there.

Gary crossed over to the sofa and sank into it, burying his face in the jacket he’d picked up. “Bollocks,” he mumbled, thinking of calling Scholesy over anyway just so that he had someone to strangle. He didn’t have a hundred and thirty four, let alone double that. And he could really have used that bonus. As it was, he was probably going to have to move in with Phil at the end of the month, and he really, _really_ didn’t want to feel like he was sixteen all over again.

“Stupid Gary. Stupid Gary. Stupid Gary.”

“I would agree, but only if your name’s Gary.”

Gary had never been so glad in his life to hear a Scouse accent, and immediately after that brief moment of euphoria he wished that he never would be again. Jamie was standing in the doorway, still in his suit, looking thoroughly defeated. “Yes, I’m Gary,” said Gary, crossing over to shake a surprised hand. “Gary Neville. You never did finish telling me your whole name. Car-something?”

“Car – ” Jamie frowned. “ – Carter. Listen, I don’t want to bother you, so I just need to ask a favour and I’ll be on my way.”

Being on his way was definitely not part of the plan, and Gary felt alarm bells going off in his head. “Are you in a rush?” he asked, nodding at the threadbare kitchen. “I feel bad for yelling at you this morning – maybe I could make you a coffee? Or we could go out and I could buy you a drink?”

Jamie shook his head slowly. “No, I probably should be getting back. It’s just that I don’t have any money on me. And I was wondering if I could borrow some off you. I’d pay you back, of course.”

“Nah,” said Gary. “You’re just robbing me, aren’t you? Pop off with your swanky suit and a hundred euros of hard earned cash.”

Jamie flared up, taking a step closer to Gary and sticking his finger in his face. Gary didn’t flinch, and he could tell that Jamie found that mildly disconcerting. “Listen here, you Manc wanker, I don’t conform to stereotypes. Liverpool has as many thieves as anyone else. I’m not trying to steal your sodding money. I’ll send it back straightaway; all you have to do is give me your address.”

“So that you can come round and mug me off again?” Gary smirked. He knew he was supposed to be working, but it was always fun trying to get a rise out of Scousers.

Jamie threw his hands in the air. “Suit yourself, you wanker. I’ll find my own way back.” He was just about to leave when Gary leapt up and grabbed his arm. The tableau seemed to hang in the air for one brief, unmoving moment, Jamie’s skin warm through the thin shirt and his sea-green eyes going slightly wide at the touch. Gary looked away and let go. Jamie didn’t move.

“Sorry. I was just winding you up. I do that with Scousers.” Gary shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, still not meeting Jamie’s eyes. “‘Course you can have it, s’long as you return it.” He dug out his wallet and peered into it. It was the wallet of a man who owed his editor a hundred and thirty four. “Will fifty do? That should get you a taxi anywhere you need to go.”

“That’s plenty. Thanks.” Jamie took the money, careful not to brush Gary’s extended fingers. “What’s your address again?”

Gary told him. Jamie nodded once, curtly, and then he was gone. Gary waited for five seconds before grabbing his coat and going after him, keeping out of sight as Jamie turned the corner onto the main road. As he followed Jamie, he pulled out his phone and sped-dialled a number.

“’Lo.”

“Scholesy,” Gary whispered, keeping his voice down just in case Jamie heard him. “What are you doing now?”

“I’m in jail. I beat someone to death with a shovel because he couldn’t pronounce ‘Chopin’ properly. You?”

“Oh, come off it, Scholesy, I need you to be serious just for once. This is important.”

“So important that you feel the need to sound like Louis Armstrong with strep throat?”

Gary yelled-whispered a few words into the phone that would have been license for anyone to kill him. “Listen. You know that gangster bloke, James, the one I was supposed to interview before he got sick? Well, get this – I’m following him right now. Giggsy promised a bonus if we could get an exclusive, mate. You can finally get your imported custard creams.”

He could see Scholesy’s ears perk up. “I’m listening.”

“Good. Meet me at Rocca’s in an hour. Bring your weird fake watch camera thing. And your smile. And none of your cynicism.”

“You ask too much of me.”

“Whatever. Just try to be nice, all right? See you.”

Gary hung up and looked back towards his target, who was wandering past the Termini and down the Nazionale. A determination entered his stride as he rolled up his sleeves and hurried to keep up. He was Gary Neville and he was always got his target, handsome Scouse bastards or no.

 

-

 

It would have been nice to be able to say that he knew what he was doing, but it would also have been a lie. Jamie walked down the long, unending street aimlessly, wondering what he ought to do. He didn’t have a phone and he didn’t have a wallet, but he definitely didn’t want to go back to the stupid villa and stupid Xabi telling him that to meet people he didn’t care about.

Xabi. The thought made him stop in the middle of the street. Xabi meant Stevie, and Stevie meant someone who was probably completely and utterly freaking out. Jamie looked around, finally spotting a payphone in the corner of the street.

“I didn’t know these things still existed,” he muttered, crossing over and staring at the muted silver buttons. Evidently he was not going to get anywhere by shoving a fifty euro note into the coin slot. Maybe he could buy something. Or do something his dad would never have let him do.

He snorted at that. What could possibly be liberating for him? Girls could cut their hair and all that shit. He reckoned if he went into a barber shop they’d laugh him out of there.

Gary could use a haircut, though, shaggy Manc cunt that he was. His hair had practically been falling into his liquid brown eyes. Jamie blinked. “What the _fuck_ , Carragher?” he said to himself, knocking the side of his head for good measure. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

What he needed was a drink, not to be thinking of Manc wankers he didn’t really know. Jamie sighed and found his eyes come to rest on something particularly promising. He looked down at his thousand-dollar Prada suit and grinned.

 

-

 

Stevie jumped out of the chair when the phone began to ring. “It’s him,” he hissed, comically stabbing his finger repeatedly at the desk. Xabi smiled indulgently, which was slightly – very – patronising. “He’s realised how much of a little shit he’s been and wants to come home.”

“I do not think so,” Xabi said, but picked up the phone and put it on speaker anyway. “Hello, James. Having a nice time?”

“Yeah, this is so much better than meeting _Hector_ ,” Jamie said, snorting. “Is Stevie mad?”

Xabi looked over at Stevie, who was seething so much that his face had turned an odd purple shade. “That’s one way to describe it,” he said mildly. “I think he might explode in a few seconds.”

“Hiya, Stevie,” Jamie said happily. Stevie picked up the phone and started yelling straight into Jamie’s ear.

“JAMES CARRAGHER YOU LITTLE _FUCKWIT_ YOU’D BETTER COME BACK RIGHT THIS INSTANT – ”

“Easy there, now, Steven,” Jamie tutted. “I have dad’s phone number too, and I doubt he’d be keen on finding out what _really_ happened under the nose of his head of security and consigliere.”

Stevie crumpled back into the chair, deflated. Xabi patted his hand. “James. I’m sure it’s been very fun sleeping on the streets, and I’m sure it’s very fun being completely lost on the streets of Rome without having anything to do because you’re too used to being mollycoddled, but don’t you think this has gone far enough?”

Jamie was silent and Xabi knew that he’d hit at least one of the nails on their heads, as usual. Finally, he got a peevish, “I didn’t sleep on the streets.”

This was slightly worrying. Xabi looked over at Stevie and said, “Is there anyone we need to… take care of?”

“No,” Jamie replied, a little too quickly for Xabi’s liking. “No, it was just a random bloke who picked me off the street and let me sleep over. Nothing weird happened, Christ. He was a Manc, wouldn’t you believe it.”

Stevie sniggered despite himself. “S’not funny,” Jamie complained. “I woke up surrounded by an army of Fergies. It was awful.”

“You didn’t tell him who you were, did you?” Xabi pressed.

“No, I’m not _that_ stupid, Alonso. Reputations ruined, vulnerable to the paps, blah blah blah. I took precautions. You’re not going to see me on the front page tomorrow gallivanting around Rome having spent the night in a United fan’s bed.”

“Good, because your father will throw a fit. You know how he is about publicity.”

“Uncontrolled reporters are evil, I get it.” Xabi could feel Jamie rolling his eyes. “Look, I won’t attract undue attention, all right? I’ll stay low key. I just want to not-be a Carragher for a while.”

Xabi paused, and then he said, “all right.”

Stevie turned to look at him, his mouth dropping open so wide you could have flown a plane through it. An intake of breath on the line told him that Jamie had had a similar reaction. “What?” Xabi asked, now slightly annoyed that his micromanaging, perfectionistic reputation had extended so far. “Is Steven the only one allowed to have lapses of judgement?”

“Oi,” Stevie frowned.

“Just remember one thing, James.” Xabi’s voice dropped to a serious note. “Even deed poll doesn’t change your last name.”

He hung up before Jamie could respond, and Stevie rolled his eyes. “You’re such a drama queen,” he whined. Xabi shrugged.

“Guilty as charged,” he admitted, leaning back into his seat. “But you’ll see just how much of a masterstroke that was. If we can’t find him, he’ll come back himself. Just wait.”

 

-

 

Whatever Gary had been expecting Jamie to do, the last thing had to be waltzing into a costume shop and waltzing out looking like a teenager having a rebellious phase. And by rebellious phase, he meant Goth.

There were black streaks running down the Scouser’s eyes and the rest of his face had been painted a pale, powdery white, reminiscent of Kiss on a bad makeup day. Instead of his suit, he was sporting some ridiculous skull-and-crossbones heavy metal t-shirt for a band he probably didn’t even know existed. Gary had to smother his mouth with his arm to stop himself from bursting into laughter. He’d never seen anything more ridiculous, and he’d been there to watch United lose 6-1.

If he had been Jamie’s friend, it would have been time for an intervention. Gary thought about it for a bit and decided that even though he wasn’t Jamie’s friend it was time for an intervention anyway. Still, it didn’t mean that he couldn’t have any fun. A quick text to a very grumpy not-Becks-David got him the requisite information, and Gary elbowed his way into Jamie, swearing as he shoved him against the wall.

“Look where you’re going, you fuckwad,” Jamie yelled, before stopping and staring at Gary. “Neville?”

“Carter?” Gary responded smoothly, looking just as surprised to see him. “What the hell did you – ” his eyes travelled down to the t-shirt that Jamie was wearing and widened in excited recognition. Someone should be giving him a goddamn Oscar for this performance, fuck DiCaprio. “Holy shit, is that Brocas Helm’s _Black Death_? I didn’t know you liked them!”

Jamie looked down at his t-shirt in complete non-comprehension. “Wha – ”

“I’ve been following them ever since ’84! How about you?”

“The… same?” Jamie’s helpless, drowning-in-the-sea expression was a delight.

“That’s so cool. What’s your favourite song? Mine has to be Time of the Dark, what a tune.” Gary wagged a finger in his face before he could respond. “And don’t say the same one, because that’s cheating.”

Jamie wrung his hands. Gary liked to think that he was selling away Liverpool’s Europa league spot next season just to come out of this conversation unscathed. “Uhhhhhh. I like. Um. Black… Dark… Spots… in Hell?”

“Black Dark Spots In Hell,” Gary repeated slowly, making sure to emphasise how stupid that sounded, even for an eighties heavy metal band called Brocas Helm. He didn’t know how it was possible, but Jamie paled. “Hmm. Somehow I don’t remember that song.”

“Oh, it’s a really good song,” Jamie elaborated, sensing an opportunity the way liars often did, before they were eaten by wolves. “Lots of, er, heavy metal things like drums and. Stuff.”

Gary quirked his mouth up in a gauntlet-throwing smile and said, sweet as a Manc could be, “how does it go again?”

He recorded Jamie’s visible flinch with glee. There was no way Jamie was going to back out of this now; the smug look on Gary’s face and the commitment to bullshit that he suspected Jamie harboured made sure of that. “Like this,” Jamie said, sticking his chin out in a mixture of defiance and utter cluelessness. “Black dark spots in hell… aren’t they so… swell… guns, death and… skulls… I…”

Gary stared at him for five full seconds and then burst into a peal of laughter. Jamie shoved his hands into his pockets and scowled darkly. “All fucking right,” he muttered, “I don’t know your stupid band, okay? I bought this t-shirt ten seconds ago.”

Gary was still laughing, so much so that his face had gone almost red and his sides were starting to hurt. Jamie was still scowling, but the corner of his mouth began to twitch reluctantly at Gary’s ridiculously infectious laughter, and finally he offered a grin of surrender. “You cunt,” he said. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Gary snorted through his laughter. “You don’t think I listen to heavy fucking metal, do you?”

“I bet you listen to, like, Phil Collins and shit,” Jamie sneered, thinking of Stevie. Gary’s laughter slowed to a quiet chuckle and he shook his head.

“Madchester, mate. One and only. I got Noel Gallagher’s signature once, before he found out what team I supported and tried to burn my book.”

“Wild,” said Jamie, wondering what going for a concert would be like. If he’d asked, dad would probably be able to invite Noel Gallagher over, but it would have been a private dinner flanked by at least four Very Big Men, and he doubted Noel would be burning anything.

Gary noticed him slipping into his thoughts and took him by the shoulder, this time ignoring the flinch and the way his brain short circuited for no particular reason at the touch. “Come on. Let’s get you into something else.” He guided him back into the shop, which was run by a tall old lady named Sofia with enough makeup to last for a lifetime.

She smiled at Jamie warmly. “Back so soon?” she asked, her English perfect, if slightly accented.

“My friend decided that Goth wasn’t really for him,” Gary said. Jamie looked at him strangely, but didn’t say anything. “Could we have a look at something else?”

“You’re not making me do this,” Jamie growled. It was only when he pulled away that Gary realised he’d still been holding onto him. “I’m just going to wash my face and then we’re going to get out of here.”

“Oh, no, Halloweenie,” Gary said, flopping onto the sofa, crossing his arms and looking up expectantly. “You started this, didn’t you? I gave you cash for a taxi and you decided to buy a fucking costume in some weird fuck-you to whoever you’re fucking over. So buy a fucking costume.”

Jamie sighed and trooped into the changing room. Gary almost choked on his saliva when he trooped out two minutes later wearing a floppy cowboy hat and fake spurs.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Before Jamie could protest, Gary had whipped out his phone and snapped a picture. “Cowboy Carter. That could be a new series.”

“Fuck you, Neville,” Jamie moaned, balling up the hat and throwing it into a corner. Sofia sighed.

The next outfit was a ridiculous Roman soldier costume. Gary eyeballed the fake abs that had been chiselled onto the armour. “Hardly a reflection of reality, is it?” he mused.

“Better than yours,” Jamie said pointedly. Gary, remembering the unfortunate circumstances of their first meeting, turned red again.

“Get back in there, Carter,” he said instead, taking another picture. “We must find something you like, mustn’t we, Sofia? Preferably nothing that involves you warbling along horribly to a tune you stole from Gerry and the Pacemakers.”

“I did not steal that tune from Gerry and the Pacemakers,” Jamie protested, mentally making a note to change up his Spotify playlists.

Superman Jamie, to tell the truth, wasn’t half bad. “Check that out,” Gary said, scooting over as Jamie peered at his phone, interested despite himself. “I like the cape.”

“You’re barmy if you think I’m walking around Rome in a cape,” Jamie scoffed. Xabi would have thrown a fit, although he did think he looked good.

By the time he slipped on the policeman’s uniform, he was feeling distinctly more comfortable than he should have been. Perhaps it was the small, heated confines of the shop, perhaps it was the desire for liberation that had first driven him inside, or perhaps it was the way Gary was sitting there looking at his phone, his brow creased and the line between his eyes sharpening into focus. Jamie strutted up to him and rested his baton on Gary’s knee. “Officer Carter reporting for duty,” he said, trying out his best mock-sultry voice. “Did someone call for the police?”

Gary dropped his phone. Jamie grinned. “Someone’s been naughty and needs arresting,” he winked, drawing his baton upwards to tilt Gary’s face towards his. Gary swallowed, his eyes unreadable, and Jamie suddenly found himself far too close for comfort. Sofia had gone to the back of the shop, Jamie’s shin was just brushing the inside of Gary’s leg, and all he had to do was lean in –

“Say cheese,” said Gary, and snapped the picture before Jamie could do anything he regretted. Jamie forced a laugh and tossed the baton onto the sofa.

“No strippers, huh?” he giggled, his heart beating faster than it should have.

“No strippers,” Gary said firmly, and crossed his legs when Jamie went back into the changing room.

 

-

 

Eventually, Jamie settled for a vaguely Grease outfit that didn’t look entirely out of place, and Gary said nothing about the way the white t-shirt fit perfectly over his chest as they left a beaming, slightly relieved Sofia.

“Want to grab a coffee?” Gary asked, looking at his watch and wondering if Scholesy had bothered to turn up at all. Or if he’d decided that his time was much better spent watching Italian football recaps and stuffing himself with biscuits. “I know a nice little place near here.”

“Sure.” Jamie didn’t have anything to do, and it beat trying to explore Rome by himself. “Don’t you have to go to work or something, though?”

Gary paused. “Uh. Uh… no. I called in sick because some maniac invaded my house last night and I needed time to recuperate.”

Jamie rolled his eyes but took the explanation without much protest. Gary led him to Rocca’s, a breezy little Italian restaurant off the Piazza del Quirinale. To his eternal gratitude, a surly, ginger photographer was already sitting at a table, surrounded by six empty coffee cups.

“About sodding time,” Scholesy began to say as Gary approached. Gary kicked his foot under the table and said over Scholesy’s swearing in the most exaggerated voice known to man, “Well, fancy seeing you here, Scholesy!”

Jamie peered over Gary’s shoulder with polite interest. “Jamie, this is Scholesy – Scholesy’s a friend from, ah, Manchester. Scholesy, this is Jamie Carter, from Liverpool, awful as it is.”

“Pleased to meet you, Scholesy,” Jamie said with punctilious politeness. “That’s not your real name, is it?”

“Like yours is real,” Scholesy started again, only to receive his second kick from Gary. “- I mean, it’s a nickname. Short for Scholes. Like how I call Gary ‘twat’.” And he emphasised this by directing a stare at Gary that promised he would be dead by midnight.

“D’you mind if we join you, Scholesy?” said Gary, beaming. “We’re just getting drinks.”

Scholesy waved his hand and called the waiter over, asking for two more coffees. The two of them sat down, Gary grinning at Jamie in a way that was slightly starting to unnerve him.

“So, Jamie. I never got round to asking. What are you doing in Rome?”

The question caught Jamie off guard, and that combined with two pairs of Manc eyes staring intently at him was enough to make him stumble. “I’m, uh, just… visiting. My, uh, dad… likes the sun. And you don’t get a lot of it up north.”

“I can imagine.” Gary reclined in his chair, sipping lazily at his black coffee. “So your dad’s retired, then?”

“No,” Jamie said instinctively, before mentally cursing himself. “He, um. He’s a kind of businessman.”

“Oh?” Gary picked his voice up to sound mildly interested. “Anyone famous?”

“No, he’s… not in a line of work people would’ve heard of.”

“What’s that?”

“Goats,” Jamie said, regretting it the moment the word left his mouth. Scholesy turned to look at Gary in a way that suggested he would rather be dead than listen to this drivel. Gary did not doubt him.

“Goats.”

“Yes, goats. They’re… very profitable.”

“Which explains your suit last night,” Gary nodded. To Scholesy, he said, “Found ol’ Jamie last night half dead on the street. He had a very nice suit on.”

“Ah,” said Scholesy, obviously finding this completely uninteresting.

“Are you going into the goat business too, then?”

“Ma-ybe.”

Gary smirked. “You sound like one.”

“Fuck off, Neville. You sound like a dog trapped in a hamster wheel.”

“Pure dulcet.”

“Wow,” said Scholesy. “That was an old couple moment.”

Gary kicked him under the table again. Scholesy flipped him the finger. Jamie squirmed uncomfortably.

“So, do you two work together?”

Gary said “no” the same time Scholesy said “yes”. They then both tried to kick each other under the table, which resulted in a burst of muted curses.

“Sometimes,” Gary clarified, extricating himself from Scholesy’s stubby little legs. “He’s, um, a supplier of mine at work. I work at an export company and sometimes Scholesy comes down to see how things are going.”

It wasn’t great, but it was better than goats, and Jamie swallowed it. “That’s nice. S’it fun, having a nine-to-five and all?”

“Could be better,” Gary admitted. “I suppose goats are more fun.”

“Not really.” Jamie scrunched his face up. Scholesy refrained from making a comment about how he couldn’t tell the difference. “I wish I didn’t have to be in the business, to be honest. It’s not my thing.”

“How so?” Gary’s ears perked up. He was still a reporter, and he could smell a timely confession when he saw one.

“Well, dad has very – particular methods, about how he handles his goats. I don’t really agree with them. I’m glad my brother’s taking over and not me, because I’d probably end up setting them all free, the poor little sods.

“You never told me you had a brother.”

“Too busy playing dress up with you, weren’t I?”

Scholesy had given Gary more judgemental looks in the past half an hour than he had in the past week.

“Yeah, I have two. Paul and John. John’s more like me, so all he does is PR and all that crap, but Paul really likes goats. I mean the business, don’t you go getting any weird Welsh-ish images in your head. So he gets to handle all the big deals.”

“And what do you do?”

“Advertising.” Jamie smirked. “Which means I sit and look pretty.”

Scholesy leaned over and whispered into Gary’s ear, far too loudly, “this isn’t flirting, is it?”

Gary kicked him again. Scholesy was absolutely going to call in sick tomorrow, sod everything, assuming he’d be able to hobble home to his phone.

“How’s the coffee?”

Jamie looked down at his empty cup. “Nice, for a first.”

Gary nearly spat his out. “You’ve _never drunk coffee_?”

Jamie glared at him. “Fuck off, Neville. It’s not my fucking fault dad doesn’t like it, is it?”

“That’ll make a story,” Scholesy said. Gary somehow managed to kick him and stand up at the same time. It was a feat he would later be entering into the Guinness book of world records.

“Wellll. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Do you get to do a lot of touristy things in your goat business? If not, I could bring you around the city. Or something.”

Jamie squinted at him suspiciously. “Why are you being so nice to a Scouser?”

“Because you still owe me fifty euros, you knobhead.” Gary rolled his eyes like it was obvious. “And if you’re not going to spend it on a taxi or a functioning striker, then I’m going to spend it with you.”

“Sturridge is perfectly functional,” Jamie shot back, twitching his nose irritably.  “Maybe he gets broken more than he should, but look who’s talking, Mr. Phil-Jones-plays-for-my-team.”

They bickered all the way down Via della Dataria, Scholesy covertly snapping pictures with his watch and piping up helpfully whenever Gary needed a fact to substantiate his argument. By the time they made it to the Trevi Fountain, they had, between them, managed to mention 1999 and 2005 at least twenty seven times. Rocca’s was five minutes away.

“Here we are.” Gary abruptly swung his arm out to encompass the fountain, cutting Jamie off mid-making up a poem about John Barnes. “ _Fontana di Trevi_. You’re lucky it’s open, it’s under renovation nearly as often as Liverpool are in the middle of the table.”

Jamie was about to retort when the fountain properly caught his eye. Mouth slightly agape, he inched closer, taking in the broad expanse of white façade that met him. He’d seen pictures on Google, sure, but nothing could have prepared him for how _big_ it was, towering over them like a heavenly brush stroke. He moved closer, leaning over the railing to look at the way the water rippled in the pool. There was something incredibly calming about the steady, gushing hum of the fountain, the quiet breeze, the pale columns standing straight for hundreds of years.

He felt a presence next to him and barely shifted as Gary leaned over, shoulder to shoulder. “How many times you been in Rome, Carter?” Gary asked.

“Six,” he replied, his throat strangely dry.

“How many times you seen the Trevi fountain?”

“Never.”

Gary’s voice softened at the corners, like the old sweater you chose to wear on a rainy night in. “The goat business isn’t easy, huh?”

“No.” Jamie tried to shrug it off, but he could tell Gary could see right through him. “Pays the bills.”

They stood there, quiet for a while, looking at anything but each other. Gary thought that the colour of the water was far too much like Jamie’s eyes.

At length, Jamie pointed at a sign in the corner and said, “What’s that?”

Gary turned to look. “Scooter rental. Italian Vespas. Nice way to see the city.”

“Wild,” said Jamie. They left the fountain and walked towards the shop, which was kept by a surly-looking Italian who could probably split them into two if he tried.

“Price,” he said, pointing at another sign hanging in the shop. Gary read it and tried his best not to burst out into laughter.

“Fifty fucking euros,” he said, looking at the cash Jamie still had in his hand.

They turned to look at Scholesy, who was already paying the man. “Mine,” he deadpanned without even looking up.

“Two seat,” said the man.

“No fucking way,” Jamie said the same time as Gary said, “I call driver.” Jamie stared at him, aghast.

“You can’t sodding call driver like that!”

“Can to,” Gary said rudely, snatching the cash from Jamie’s hand and stuffing it in the Italian’s. “Saddle up, madam. And cling on tight.”

Grumbling, Jamie buckled his helmet and slid onto the seat behind Gary, stubbornly trying to grab onto anything but the Manc in front of him. When handholds failed to miraculously materialise on the scooter and it became clear he would probably fall off and die in a ditch somewhere, he resignedly wrapped an arm around Gary’s torso. Gary stiffening, he thought, must have been a part of his imagination.

“Don’t cling on _that_ hard,” Gary said with a light laugh as he started the engine. “I don’t want my obituary to read _Gary Neville, suffocated by Scouse_.”

“Believe me,” said Jamie, “if you died by Scouse it’d be a lot worse than that.”

 

-

 

Xabi looked at the backup that Stevie had called in with a modicum of disgust.

“I thought you said plain clothes,” he said, looking at the row of men in dark suits that would probably have any passer-by on the phone screaming ‘mafia’ to the police.

Stevie looked appalled.

“I knew I shouldn’t have gotten that deluded son of a bitch Brendan to arrange this,” he muttered.

 

-

 

They took a turn past the Coliseum, although the queues were so incredibly long and full of bitchy tourists that Jamie decided against it. “It’s just a big old circle, anyway,” said Gary. “Like your face.”

Jamie thumped him on the back of the head. In retrospect, thumping the driver of the scooter on the back of the head was not a good idea. Gary veered to the left, cutting in front of a furious Scholesy who yelled something not suitable for civilised society, and it was only through sheer will that he managed to right the scooter again.

“You Scouse bastard,” he shouted.

“You Manc wanker,” Jamie responded, dutiful as you’d like.

They drove alongside the open-air Roman forum for a bit before the Altare della Patria loomed large ahead of them. “Fuck,” Jamie said, slack-jawed in awe at the magnificence of the monument, its marble steps gleaming in the sunlight. “If they’d tried that in Liverpool they’d be smacked for wasting public money.”

“Was anyone smacked for Balotelli, then?” Gary sniped.

Jamie saved his thumping till they’d driven haphazardly through thousands of thronging shoppers down the Corso, all three of them yelling in a dazzling display of Northern vocabulary for people to get out of their way. Finally they hit the bottom of the Spanish Steps.

“Not been here either, I s’pose, you uneducated knob,” said Gary.

“Race you,” Jamie snapped back, and scampered up the steps like a twelve-year-old. After a moment of open-mouthed indignation, Gary followed suit, collapsing at the top in a heap while the Jamie smirked his victory.

“I am so out of sha – ooh, gelato,” Gary brightened, suddenly springing to his feet like he hadn’t just run for the first time in two months. The small shop and its myriad of flavours looked terribly inviting. Gary signalled Jamie to come over, pressing his nose so closely to the glass that the vendor started to look a little worried.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had gelato before, either.”

“I’ve never had gelato before.”

Gary shook his head in disappointment. “You poor little fucker. Be prepared to have your eyes opened to a magical new world, and for your tastebuds to explode in dizzying new heights of culinary satisfaction.”

Jamie scoffed and ordered a chocolate, but the moment the smooth, rich texture hit his tongue, he had to admit that Gary had not been exaggerating. “This shit is good,” he marvelled, taking two huge chunks out of it with an appetite to rival Gary’s (who was already on his second).

“Right? Now turn around and have a look at that, you twat.”

It was three in the afternoon and Jamie’s eyes took some adjusting to the light, but what he saw took his breath away – the whole of Rome laid out before them, St. Peter’s basilica in the distance winking conspiratorially, blocky orange walls scattering the streets. It was one of the most beautiful things Jamie had seen.

“Well,” he said. “This is sodding romantic.”

He didn’t know what had possessed him to say that, but he did know that it’d caused Gary to choke on his third gelato. “What, mate?” Gary said, pulling at his collar slightly nervously.

“I mean, this is the sort of place where kids bring their girls and snog the lights out of them, isn’t it?” Jamie laughed, feeling his voice hitch a little in his throat. “Utter scenes. I’m glad there’s none of that shit right now.”

“Yes,” said Gary, more muted than he should have been. “That would be disturbing.”

They walked back down the steps slowly, Jamie carefully licking his chocolate gelato, only to find that Scholesy had waited with the two scooters, his face turning a steady shade of maroon that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a United game.

“Bollocks,” he said, giving them both a glare that was probably illegal in 65 countries. “You pair of bollocks.”

Gary ruffled his hair. Jamie would have done the same, but he was quite afraid of finding out just how much damage a ginger midget could do to a body. “Buckle it up, Scholes,” Gary said, producing a strawberry cone that succeeded a little in mollifying him. “It’s getting a little late and there’s still a ton of shit that the lives under a rock-er over here hasn’t seen.”

“Oh, please. Name me the capital of Cambodia.”

“C,” Gary said with such a self-satisfied smirk on his face that left Jamie no choice but to roll his eyes and laugh.

 

-

 

The next stop on the Neville tours (Scholesy had resolutely refused to be involved in any capacity, which was just as well, because Gary would have claimed 100% ownership) was the Piazza Navona, a vast, public square flanked on either end by two fountains. Gary took more pride than he ought to have had in telling Jamie how the last papal candidate in _Angels and Demons_ had died in the fountain at the far end, and how the movie’s turning it into a story of survival was complete bollocks, and how the movie, really, was complete bollocks.

“No man should be that proud of reading Dan Brown,” Jamie said, giving Gary a look of judgement that could rival Scholesy’s.

“I apologise for my pleb literature,” Gary rolled his eyes. Jamie patted him on the head, revelling in the height difference.

 “Apology accepted. Now if you apologise for that sorry excuse of a club of yours, we’re even.”

Gary flipped him the finger. Jamie had a bit of a think about the finger in question before shaking his head and feeling thoroughly horrified with himself.

 

-

 

“Know anything about the river?”

They were coasting along a small road right next to the Tiber, wheels running over a pavement dotted with grass and birds flying home to roost. Gary thought about it for a while.

“It’s named after Tiberinus, who was some sort of a mythical king who drowned in it.”

“That’s sad,” said Jamie.

“Tiberinus was the one who gave Romulus and Remus to the wolf,” Gary added, almost as an afterthought. The sun was just beginning to touch the horizon. “They say that he rescued their Vestal Virgin mother from captivity, and then they fell in love.”

Jamie didn’t say anything to that.

 

-

 

Gary pulled the scooter up in front a dark tunnel, only Scholesy catching his wink as he tilted his head towards the entrance. “Here. Want to show you something.”

“You’re not going to kill me and take all my money, are you?”

“You don’t have any money, you berk. Just go in, will you?”

Jamie wrinkled his nose but went in nevertheless. The tunnel opened up to a small hallway lined by red brick pillars and a vaulted ceiling. At the end of the hallway was a carving that looked suspiciously familiar. 

“I’ve seen that shit before,” Jamie said slowly, walking towards it.

“You were asking about Tiber,” Gary shrugged. “A lot of Romans think that the Bocca was made to represent him.”

“You know a lot of history, don’t you?”

“He doesn’t,” said Scholesy, rolling his eyes. “I’m texting him with whatever I find off Google.”

Gary delivered a kick now well-honed by practice. “It’s the Mouth of Truth in English; ‘pparently if you stick your hand in there and tell a lie, you’ll get your hand bitten off.”

“Oh yeah?” Jamie walked up to it and gingerly put his hand in. The marble was cold to the touch. “Try this one. ‘Alex Ferguson is the best manager on the planet.’”

Nothing happened to his hand as he dragged it out, except for it being a little damper. Gary grinned smugly. “That’s because it’s true.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, it really does work. Watch this.”

Gary inched his hand into the crevice while Scholesy googled ‘atmospheric music’. Once his hand was completely covered by the hole, he said in his broad, slow Mancunian accent, “Liverpool is the best football club in the world.”

Nothing happened for a split second, then Gary started screaming bloody murder. Both Jamie and Scholesy jumped, and Jamie, to his eternal shame, started yelling too.

“MY HAND MY HAND – ”

“WHAT THE _FUCK_ , NEVILLE – ”

“CALL A DOCTOR – ”

Gary whipped out his hand to reveal a jacket sleeve that branched off into nothingness. Jamie yelped again, more from the shock and the visceral image than anything else, before the voice in his head screaming how irrational this was finally won out. He threw Gary a dirty look; not that Gary and Scholesy noticed anything, busy howling their heads off as they were.

 “You absolute wanker,” Jamie muttered darkly.

Gary readjusted his jacket and gave Jamie a cheeky little smile. “Couldn’t say anything as awful as that without getting something back, could I? And I got you, admit it.”

Jamie looked at his hands helplessly, then back up. Gary was already heading back to the scooters along with Scholesy, giggling like a little boy. There was something to his walk that Jamie had never seen in anyone else’s, a sort of purposefulness mixed with belief, as if it didn’t matter how long it took him to get somewhere, because he knew he’d get there in the end. “You got me,” Jamie echoed, swallowed, then jogged to catch up.

 

-

 

The sun had gone down by the time they settled for dinner, a quiet restaurant not far off the Castel Sant'Angelo. Jamie had given up asking Gary about things and was now directly consulting Scholesy, who informed them through the enlightening white box of Google search that the castle had originally been Hadrian’s mausoleum.

“That’ll teach you to build a wall through our fucking country,” he’d also added, quite unnecessarily. Jamie had raised an eyebrow at Gary, who’d shrugged as if to say _this is what happens when you hate the world._

Scholesy patted his stomach before standing up. “Right, I’m off. Claire’s not going to be happy I missed dinner. Gaz, mate, talk to you for a sec?”

Gary looked up uncertainly, before nodding and following Scholesy to a corner. “Yeah?”

Scholesy breathed in sharp and fixed his eyes on Gary. It wasn’t his usual I-will-kill-you stare; it was quiet, serious, and no less unsettling. “Be careful, Gaz.”

Gary laughed weakly and turned to look at something else. “Careful about what? I drive at thirty miles an hour and always signal – ”

Scholesy shook his head. “No jokes. I’m just saying.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Scholesy.”

“Either you do know or you’re lying.” Scholesy tapped his watch for effect. “I’m going to get these developed, yeah? See you ‘round ten tonight?”

“Yeah, all right.” Gary watched until Scholesy’s scooter motored around the corner before trooping back to the table, where Jamie had watched the whole conversation.

“Threaten to kill you?” Jamie asked, smirking.

Gary said nothing for a beat, just tapped his fingers on the table and looked past Jamie’s ear. “Maybe,” he said eventually, shrugging it off. “You can never really tell with Scholesy. Telling you he’s about to dig your eyes out might mean he loves you to bits.”

Jamie laughed. “You known him very long, then?”

“Since we were kids, really. We used to have kickabouts, five – six of us. Becks came… later.” Gary swallowed and didn’t linger too long, although Jamie saw the way his finger tapped just too hard that once. (Didn’t want to think what that meant, either the action or the noticing.) “Coming here was supposed to be an adventure, when the whole football thing didn’t work out. Not that Scholesy didn’t work out. He was the best. City and Spurs offered him a contract and he just walked away. Probably because they weren’t United, but I like to think it was because he didn’t know how he’d live without me, the bastard. Anyway, that’s the way it’s been. We look out for each other.”

He was aware that he was talking too much and tilted his head. Jamie’s eyes were terribly green in the darkness. “Sorry. What about you? Any friends and stuff? Are they all Scouse bastards?”

Jamie reached over to smack him playfully and Gary grinned in spite of himself, wishing things weren’t so _easy_ between them. “Not all of them. One’s from Spain, believe it or not. Bit of a knob. Moved to Liverpool when me dad hired him. I had two best mates from Liverpool. Stevie. Michael.” This time Gary was the one who noticed Jamie’s fist clench and unclench. “Stevie works, uh, security. He was always the one taking care of everyone, even when we were kids. Tried to order me to eat dinner once. I poured pudding down his shirt. He cried to Xabs about that for weeks.”

Gary snorted, and Jamie’s smile widened a little at having made him laugh. “If you tried anything like that with me I’d have punched your lights out.”

“Oh, please. Can you even reach my lights?”

“Shut your face, Carter.”

“Only if you can touch it.”

Gary reached over and clamped his hand over Jamie’s mouth, the way he’d have done with Scholesy or Butty, not even thinking about it. It was only after he felt Jamie’s lips twitch under his skin and saw his eyes widen that his smile died on his face a little. Silly Gary. This wasn’t Scholesy or Butty. This was a mad Scouser he’d just met last night, who’d kicked him right out of bed and insulted the love of his life more times than he could count, who was the son of a _mobster_ , fuck’s sake. They weren’t supposed to be friends, let alone anything –

“You’re a fucking idiot, Neville,” Jamie said, pulling away and laughing. His eyes swivelled to the clock on the wall and he frowned. “Oh, tits.”

“Where?”

“Not funny. Liverpool’s playing in half an hour, I completely forgot.” Jamie looked at Gary with a mischievous glint in his eye that Gary wasn’t sure about. “Know a pub that plays English football?”

“Do I heck.” Gary folded his arms. “I’m not bringing you to watch fucking Liverpool.”

“Come onnnn, Neville,” Jamie wheedled. “It’s not like I’m asking you to watch them in your house or something. It’ll be fun. I can laugh at your face when we thrash Southampton and go above you.”

“How’s that fun?”

“I didn’t mean for you.”

“You’ll have to do better than that, Carter.”

“I’ll give you back a hundred euros instead of fifty.”

Gary raised an eyebrow. “Fifty euros for a Manc to take you to watch a Liverpool game? Goat business must be prospering, huh?”

Jamie gave a non-committal grunt. “You could say that. Now are you coming or not?”

Gary held his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. “All right, you bastard. Come on.”

 

-

 

Given the existence of Serie A, as well as the general continental hatred for all things English, there were very few bars that showed English games when Italian ones were on. This had been exactly what Xabi had been banking on as he barked down the radio to the men in position. “Remember, call in the moment you notice something,” he instructed, then closed his eyes settled back to wait. Stevie looked at him with vague admiration.

“No need to thank me,” Xabi said without opening his eyes. Stevie closed his mouth and sniffed.

“I wasn’t going to thank you.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Was not.”

“Steven, don’t be juvenile. It’s unbecoming. And don’t say ‘you’re unbecoming’, because I am very becoming, and you know it.”

Stevie folded his arms, leaned back next to Xabi and decided that he was going to sulk for the rest of the night, kinky bedroom shenanigans be damned.

 

-

 

The Highlander was already packed when Gary and Jamie rushed in, having missed the line-ups. Jamie slowed to a halt the moment his eyes caught sight of the television, leaving Gary to huff and look for an empty table. He stretched to catch Jamie’s hand and dragged him to his seat. The ice-cold bolt of tension up his fingers had softened into a warm, buzzing feeling that he was entirely unsure of, though it wasn’t unpleasant.

He shook his head, stern. There was football on and he could get into that, even if it was between two teams he didn’t give a damn about. Liverpool was enjoying a good spell of possession and the constant unease on Jamie’s face had dissolved into sheer bliss, the way Gary knew he looked when he was watching United. He noted the deep lines that appeared by the corner of Jamie’s mouth as he grinned broadly, and hated himself for it.

Against the run of play Southampton scored a goal and Gary howled his head off, much to the withering looks of most of the other patrons in the bar. “Hahahahaha _ha_ ,” he cackled, pushing his face into Jamie’s for good measure. “What was that about going over us in the table again?”

Jamie’s you-are-going-to-die face looked unnervingly familiar, and Gary made a mental note not to spend so much time with Scholesy in the future.

In the twenty fifth minute Sturridge pulled one back, and Jamie shouted “GET IN!” so loudly that Gary thought for a moment his eardrums had exploded. He slammed his pint on the table, sloshing beer all over Gary, who threw him a dirty look.

“Fuck off, Manc,” he grinned. “Second half, Coutinho is gonna blow your mind.”

“This is what delusion looks like,” Gary said conversationally to the stranger on his right. He got a smack on the head for his trouble and insulted Jamie in unintelligible Manc to make sure that he wouldn’t get another one.

 

-

 

“They’re here,” Hendo said into his collar. “The Highlander, Vicolo di San Biagio.”

Stevie shot upright from where he’d been dozing when Xabi patted him gently on the knee. “Jesus,” he swore, glaring at Xabi. “I dreamt that Everton lost a game and the boss was mad about it, but then I laughed so he shot me just where you put your hand a second later.”

“Sounds like you,” Xabi rolled his eyes. “Come on, he’s been spotted. Is he alone, Hendo?”

“…no, I don’t think so,” Hendo said after a moment’s pause. “There’s another man at the table. They seem to be yelling at each other a lot.”

“Hm. You think he might be that Manc fellow?”

“If he is I’ll kill him first before killing Jamie,” Stevie promised.

“Hendo, we’re sending backup your way. Should get there by the end of the game. Wait for people to start leaving before going in, so that it’s less obvious.”

“Are we going too?” Stevie asked hopefully.

“No. The lads can handle it. We don’t need to make things worse by putting you and a Manc in the same room.”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe, if you’re good.”

 

-

 

Liverpool were running absolute riot over Southampton, and with every goal that they picked up Gary deflated just a little bit more. Jamie, by contrast, was absolutely shining, his grin stretching across his face so wide that Gary vindictively hoped he would burst into flames. Or just burst, like a bubble. He wasn’t picky.

“Who’s laughing now?” Jamie gloated as Origi slotted in his third of the night and Liverpool’s sixth. Gary slumped onto the table and buried his face in his arms, groaning.

“Shut up, you twat.”

“What’s the biggest score United’s managed to rack up so far this season? Have you been able to score goals at all?”

“Three-nil, so yes, we have, Mr. Lost to fucking Newcastle.”

“I don’t care,” Jamie said happily, downing his last pint for the night and throwing its remnants into Gary’s already drenched face. “I just made you watch us beat a team 6-1. You just had to watch _six Liverpool goals_.”

Gary shuddered and stood up. “I’m going to wash my face and scrub my brain. Scholesy might be ‘round in a minute. Wait here, yeah?”

Jamie nodded and twiddled his thumbs as he watched Gary disappear into the throng of people, still bouncing a little from the result. A couple of men slapped him on the shoulder as they walked past, drunkenly singing the anthem while stumbling out. Watching games with Xabi and Stevie (who was the sort who would literally get onto his knees and pray to a pineapple if they were losing) was always fun, but being anonymous in a pub was something else. It was a lifestyle Jamie wouldn’t have minded, truth be told. Just sitting and having a drink and being with –

“Carra.”

Jamie stiffened.

“I’m not going back, Hendo,” he said calmly, as if they’d been talking about the weather. “Xabs promised.”

“Xabi promised you’d get some leeway, and now you’ve had enough. Are you coming or will we have to make you come?”

Jamie turned to figure out the odds. He could see eight suits, two of which had probably been tailor-made for extra large. He swallowed.

“Make me.”

Two pairs of arms grabbed Jamie by the shoulders and yanked him out of his chair, sending it clattering to the floor just as Gary came back out of the toilet. “Wha – ” he started, before it clicked in his head.

“Gary,” Jamie yelled. He was almost out of the door now, and he knew that there’d be a car waiting outside to bundle him in. Smooth as clockwork, or Xabi Alonso, as this clock was called. “Gary, you wanker, _help me_.”

Without even thinking about it Gary launched himself at the man on Jamie’s right, barrelling into him with all the force of three afternoon gelatos and a few pints. The man sagged into the wall and his grip on Jamie slackened. Jamie curled his right hand into a fist and swung it into Ads’s face, mumbling hasty apologies as he did so. One of the giants started in on Gary, who ducked out from under him and elbow-jumped him in the back. He bounced off like a penny off an army bed and the giant gave him a look of pity before dragging him up by the collar.

“Gaz, what the fuck – ”

Gary had never been so glad to see a ginger midget in his life. “Don’t just stand there, you tiny man,” he shouted across the room even as he tore himself from the giant’s grasp. “Help the fuck out, will you?”

Scholesy looked at the other goliath, who was advancing towards Jamie. “Please tell me David won,” he muttered, picking up his metaphorical sling in the shape of an empty beer glass.

Jamie had managed to lay out Ads and Milly, and he looked over to find Gary giving Hendo a face painting he wouldn’t be forgetting anytime soon. “This is my first bar fight,” he yelled, fuelled by a strange sense of euphoria. Gary stopped punching for a bit to stare at Jamie open-mouthed.

“It’s a bar fight, not a sharing session!”

“Get the fuck out of here, you stupid twats!” Scholesy screamed a war cry as he charged the second goliath. Gary jumped over a broken table and grabbed Jamie’s hand to drag him out of the bar. There were a dozen more suits waiting outside and Jamie paled.

“This way!” Still holding Jamie’s hand, Gary set off down a dark road that was too narrow for a car. Jamie could hear the _click-clack_ of the boys’ polished shoes on the cobblestones as they chased after them. He sprinted to catch up with Gary, who could move surprisingly fast for someone who’d complained that one plate of carbonara was hardly enough.

They took a right, then another, before finding themselves at the edge of the river Tiber. The gang had fallen behind but it would be moments before they caught up. Gary paused for a split second, and then said, “sorry.”

Jamie looked at him stupidly. “What for?”

“In advance.” Gary put his hands on Jamie’s back and shoved him in. Jamie yelped as the ice-cold water hit him, soaking into his t-shirt and the soles of his shoes. There was another splash as Gary dove in, and then Jamie felt strong arms wrap around his torso, pulling him to the surface. “Don’t make a sound,” Gary whispered, moving to the blind spot that was the bottom of the wall they’d jumped from.

Jamie held his breath as he heard footsteps approaching. “I could’ve sworn they went this way,” someone moaned. “Xabs is going to kill us.”

“Can you see anything in the river?” said another voice. There was silence and a scuffling as they peered down. Jamie was suddenly very aware of Gary’s breath on the back of his neck, warm and slow.

“No, they must have turned back in. These bloody labyrinth streets. You three, go that way,” said another voice. “The rest of you, come with me. They have to be around here somewhere.”

The shoes pattered into the distance, and then everything was quiet again. Gary pointed to a set of steps carved into the rock and they swam towards that, hauling themselves out of the water and collapsing in a heap on the pavement. Gary began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Jamie asked, his mouth twitching.

“‘ _This is my first bar fight_ ,’” Gary mimicked, putting on a Scouse accent worse than Dick van Dyke’s Cockney attempt.

Jamie tried to scowl, but gave up as Gary dissolved into a fresh set of giggles. “Yeah, well, it was. And I thought I did wonderfully, ta very much.”

“Eh. You did all right. Scholesy was the one doing the heavy lifting, and he’s five foot six.”

The thought of this was so utterly ludicrous that Jamie began to laugh too, until he was coughing up the water that had got into his lungs. “Whatever. It was worth it, if only to see you get a black eye.”

“What?” Gary instinctively reached up to feel the bruised skin around his eye. “Oh, bollocks. I didn’t even notice.”

“Here.” Jamie yanked off the loose strip of fabric that Hendo had torn off his t-shirt, bundling it up and pressing it to Gary’s eye. Gary stopped laughing and Jamie felt his own smile fade a little. He could just make out Gary in the darkness, his hair dripping and plastered to his forehead, white shirt clinging to his chest.

“I can do it,” Gary said coarsely, quietly. He moved his hand up to take the cloth from Jamie, but his fingers caught Jamie’s wrist instead and pulled it away so that nothing was between them, just the cold Roman air.

Jamie thought, _fuck it_ , and leaned in to kiss him.

Gary tasted like beer and the love that Tiberinus had had for his Vesta. Jamie shifted to push him against the steps and deepened the kiss, his hand resting on Gary’s chest while Gary’s ran up inside his jacket and pressed against his back, pulling him closer. Everything was a haze of soft and warm and lingering, Gary’s tongue brushing against his lips, Gary’s fingers tangled in his hair, Gary, Gary.

It was Gary who pulled away first, his cheeks flushed even in the half-moonlight and his eyes hooded and inscrutable. He held Jamie’s gaze for a second then turned away, breathing hard. Jamie could hear his own breath all harsh like raindrops in a storm. His gaze flicked down to the tense muscles in Gary’s neck then up again before he turned away too. One of those touristy boats was floating by in the distance, all lit up and hopeful. Jamie clenched his fist and unclenched it again. He wondered if Gary had been able to taste death and guns on him.

“I think,” Gary said eventually, “we should go home and get changed.” He tried to turn it back into a joke, even though neither of them were laughing anymore. “Before we catch fucking pneumonia.”

They walked back to the bar, which looked like there’d never been a fight. No more broken chairs and scattered glass. Jamie wrinkled his brow; so Xabi had come by and cleaned up. Gary squinted but said nothing. The scooter was still parked out front, keys in the ignition.

Jamie climbed on behind Gary and put his arms around him again, but this time even closer, pressed up like sardines in a tin, burying his nose in Gary’s dripping wet shoulder. Neither of them said anything on the ride home.

It was supposed to have gone like this: showering, changing into dry clothes, watching telly for a bit. It went like this: Gary unlocked the door then turned with such a suddenness that Jamie didn’t even react until he’d been pinned up against the wall, Gary’s mouth hot and hungry against his.

“You’re fucking heavy,” he moaned against Jamie’s cheek. Jamie sniggered into the kiss, burying his hands in Gary’s hair. Gary pulled away from the wall and fumbled towards the bathroom, one hand pressed against Jamie’s aching zipper.

“You lazy bastard,” Jamie leered. “Not even going to take my clothes off?”

“You’re already wet,” Gary pointed out, and the double entendre set them both off, Jamie muffling his laughter into Gary’s shoulder as Gary unzipped his trousers and took him in hand. The water hit Jamie’s back like a drumroll and he gasped when Gary began to work him off, slow and deliberate, his other hand on the back of Jamie’s neck pressing him closer.

Jamie remembered what came next in snapshots. How Gary’s name sounded as it was wrenched from his throat in an involuntary groan. Pulling off their shirts and crashing, skin on skin, a mess of tangled limbs as they grinded their hips against each other. Jamie on his knees gathering Gary in his mouth, then again as Gary thrust in from behind him, mouthing something between hysterical laughter and heavy cursing every time the movement made him bang his head against the wall. The heat that filled his stomach, the way Gary held him as he came.

Afterwards they sat at the bottom of the shower, Gary resting his head on Jamie’s chest, one leg twined around Jamie’s. The water was still dripping down on them and Jamie looked up. “Your utility bill’s going to be mental,” he said, fighting off the absurd giggle that bubbled in his throat.

Gary waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, let it. You’re paying, remember?”

“That is true.” Jamie corpsed again. “Fuck, I just remembered I’ve seen you naked before.”

Gary snorted. “Been dreaming of me since then, have you?”

“A dick for a dick.”

“You know what’s worse?”

“What?”

“You just fucked a Manc in a house with Alex Ferguson on the walls.”

“Oh,” Jamie choked. “Jesus. I need to go to church.”

They were silent for a while, except for the dripping water.

“Hey, Scouser.”

Gary looked up at Jamie sleepily. His lips were twisted into a smile that told Jamie he knew all about the goat business. Jamie felt something slip in his heart. “I’m gonna ask you to do something I know you can’t.”

“What is it, you wanker?”

“Stay.” Gary whispered the word into Jamie’s skin, and Jamie trembled. “Stay forever.”

Jamie breathed in. The edge of his voice cracked as he said, so softly he wasn’t sure if Gary would hear, “I need to go.”

 

-

 

Stevie paced the room for the twenty third time, as if he was trying to set a record for the most number of times someone could walk around a carpet without wearing it out. Xabi sat in the plush armchair next to the fireplace, his expression somewhere between bored and wanting to shoot Stevie to put them both out of their misery. Hendo was standing in front of them with a cut lip, closing his eyes and praying that he wouldn’t be dead in the next twenty four hours.

“I didn’t know he was press,” he said.

Xabi shrugged. “You wouldn’t have known.”

“I can’t believe we just let him go,” Stevie fumed. “Like that. He tried to punch you, Xabs, fuck’s sake.”

“He was fifteen centimetres shorter than me. Even if I had stayed still he would never have made it. Now will you stop worrying and sit down?”

“We could’ve killed him. He was a _Manc_.”

“And have international media down our throats? Or start gang wars with the Mancs? Steven, calm the fuck down or you’re not getting any tonight.”

Stevie stopped pacing and stared at Xabi, horrified. “ _I_ was the one who was going to hold out tonight, you dick. Stop taking away all my leverage.”

“Well, shut up and sit down, then. Your boy will come back tonight, I guarantee it.”

Xabi looked so cocksure in his confidence that Stevie ended up collapsing into the chair next to him, deflated. “He’d better, Xabs, or we’re fucked. I doubt Carra Sr. is going to be very happy if he greets an empty plane.”

“We’ll see what happens, shall we?” Xabi tilted his head. “I hope you remembered to pack your kevlar vest, though.”

Stevie swallowed.

 

-

 

Gary had left Jamie to wash off without saying another word. Jamie had closed his eyes and allowed the water to run down his face. He thought of what would happen to his best mate if he ran away, and not of what would happen to him.

“What time’s it?” he asked as he stepped out, back in his old shirt and trousers. Gary glanced at his watch.

“Almost one.”

Jamie picked up his jacket.

“Could you drive me? I’ll probably get lost.”

“Sure.”

Jamie couldn’t make out what emotion Gary’s voice was carrying and decided not to try.

He choked back a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob when Gary forwent the car in favour of the scooter leaning against the wall. They snaked through the quiet streets of Rome one last time, Jamie resting his head on Gary’s back and looking at the soft-lit buildings like he never wanted to forget.

“We’re here,” Gary said eventually, slowing to a halt and killing the engine. They sat there quiet for a minute, two minutes, five.

“Thanks,” Jamie said.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Gary said.

“Don’t.”

Gary swallowed and nodded. Jamie said, marvelling at how steady his voice was, “I’m going to get off and I’m going to walk towards that building. Don’t watch me go past the gates. The moment I hit the gates just drive. Just drive.”

Gary nodded again, this time almost imperceptibly. Jamie bit his lip.

“Funny,” he whispered. This time his voice seemed to be breaking into pieces, shard by shard. “I can’t seem to say goodbye.”

“Then don’t try,” Gary said, and twisted around to kiss him. It seemed to last an eternity and no time at all. Jamie breathed him in, placed his fragments next to his Roman buildings. He brushed his thumb over Gary’s cheek and pulled away, remembering the heat of his skin. Then he climbed off the scooter and managed an unsteady smile. Gary’s eyes, soft and brown, smiled back.

“Scouse bastard.”

“Manc wanker.”

 Jamie turned and walked as quickly as his heart would let him. He crossed the street and rang the bell and pretended not to hear a scooter engine starting up in the distance, or fading away.

 

-

 

“What,” Stevie snarled, “am I going to do with you?”

“Nothing,” Jamie said. “I came back, didn’t I?”

“You just _run away_ , you’re uncontactable for the _whole day_ , you decide to _smash up a whole bar_ , your friend’s _friend_ tries to break Xabi’s _nose_ – ”

“He tried to break Xabi’s nose?” Jamie thought of Scholesy, arms flailing in all directions, and hid a smile.

“And damn right he didn’t manage to, either, or I’d have properly smashed him in – ”

“Stevie, I came back, for fuck’s sake.”

“We didn’t know you would – ”

“I did,” Xabi piped up. Stevie ignored him.

“You _belong_ here, you have a _duty_ – ”

“Gerrard.” Jamie’s voice was quiet and yet so utterly frightening in its firmness that Stevie shut up and stared. “Never talk to me about duty again. If it hadn’t been for duty, to you, to Xabs, to my family, I wouldn’t have come back tonight.” He paused. “I wouldn’t have come back at all.”

The room was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning. “Now, Ads tells me you’ve rescheduled everything for tomorrow. Which means I have a sodding press conference in seven hours, which means I want to sleep. So if you’ll leave me to it now, that would be ace.”

Stevie opened and closed his mouth before turning away and storming out of the room without another word. Xabi followed more laconically, although he gave Jamie a suspiciously understanding look of pity before leaving. Jamie flopped back onto his bed and closed his eyes.

 

-

 

Giggsy barrelled into the room the moment Gary opened the door, fingers stuffed in the pockets of his coat, staring at Gary accusingly. “All right,” he said. “I bite. Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Gary asked, genuinely forgetting.

“The story, you dipshit. My mobster for a day story. Becks was at a bar and heard a fight. ‘Pparently it was the mob and someone recognised you and Scholesy.”

Gary clenched his fist. “Maybe they were mistaken.”

“Scholesy? Mistaken? There’re about as many tiny gingers in Rome as there are dancing cauliflowers.” Giggsy rifled through the papers on Gary’s desk. “Come on, Neville, it has to be here somewhere.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Liar. Did Scholesy get any pictures?”

“I don’t have it,” Gary repeated himself in a tone that made Giggsy stop and stare at him.

“What do you mean you don’t have it?”

“There’s no story.” Gary shrugged. “I thought I had a lead. I was wrong.”

Giggsy shoved his face at Gary suspiciously. “You’re never wrong.”

“I was this time.”

Gary regretted giving Scholesy the spare key the minute he burst through the door waving a cream-coloured envelope. “Giggsy! Just the bloke I wanted to see. I’ve got them all, Gaz.”

Giggsy’s eyes swivelled from Gary to Scholesy and back again. “What’ve you got?”

“The measles, probably,” Gary quipped, striding over to snatch the envelope out of Scholesy’s hand. “It’s nothing, Giggsy. Asked him to print some photos of our trip to Manchester the other week, s’all.”

“They’re not – ” Scholesy began. Gary kicked him one more time. Scholesy was starting to wonder just why they were still friends.

“You’ve got something, Neville.” Giggsy narrowed his eyes. “I want to see those photos.”

“They’re private,” Gary said, stuffing them into his pocket. “Scholesy gets drunk and has ‘George is the Best’ tattooed on his butt. You don’t want to see that.”

“It’s true,” Scholesy said. “George is the Best.”

Giggsy still obviously didn’t believe them, but he backed towards the door slowly, sensing that he’d never get a hand on the pictures. “All right, you twats,” he muttered. “There’s a conference with your mobster’s son today at nine. Let’s see if you can do at least something right for once. And that’s double you owe me, Neville.”

“You’ll get it,” Gary rolled his eyes.

“I’d better.”

The moment Giggsy left, Scholesy turned to Gaz. “What’s up? I’d hate to sell out Giggsy and all, but if we had a better offer for the story that doesn’t involve Panini stickers, I’m more than happy to deal.”

“Nothing’s up.” Gary sat down on the sofa heavily. “I just need to find two hundred sixty eight stickers, is all.”

Scholesy snatched the photos from Gary’s pocket and waved them in the air. “This isn’t up? This is journalism gold, mate. You write that crap, we print this shit, and we’re off and never landing.”

“There isn’t a story, Scholesy,” Gary said, and the penny dropped. Scholesy held his breath and then let it out in a little sigh, before sitting down next to Gary.

“These came out pretty well,” he said quietly, taking the photos out from the envelope. “You wanna have a look?” He picked one up and tilted it towards Gary, grinning. “Look – Mobster Boy Sees Fountain For First Time.”

Gary looked over at the picture and felt his throat constrict at the sight of the boyish wonder on Jamie’s face at the Trevi Fountain. “That’s a good one,” he stumbles, throat dry.

“How about this one – Scoot Over.” It was Gary and Jamie on their scooter, Jamie hanging on to Gary for dear life, his mouth open in a terrified grin. Gary’s lip quirked up involuntarily.

“You Can’t Handle The Truth,” he said, pointing to the one where Jamie was screaming his head off at Gary’s fake hand-loss. Scholesy chuckled.

“Yeah. Toss in a Liverpool crack while you’re at it. But get this – ” he handed Gary a picture of Jamie landing a spectacular punch on Ads. Gary whistled.

“Wow.”

“Is it?” Scholesy was practically bouncing with pride. “What a shot, huh? What a shot! An Offer He Couldn’t Refuse!”

“Say Hello To My Little Friend, eh?”

“Yeah, yeah! That’s it! The headline, the picture, a gorgeous story beneath. Perfection!”

Gary had only seen Scholesy this animated once, and that had been the night Becks had left. Scholesy had stayed all night talking about things that hadn’t mattered. He felt his smile begin to slip.

Scholesy noticed and nudged Gary in the shoulder, soft.

“You should sell these, Scholesy,” Gary muttered. “You’d get a good price for them.”

“I would.” Scholesy stood up, walked to the door, turned back. “You going, then?”

“To the interview?”

“Yeah.”

Gary looked up and shrugged, helpless. “It’s an assignment, innit?”

“Guess so.” Scholesy looked almost kind in the moonlight. “Go to sleep, Gaz.”

Gary rolled onto his stomach after Scholesy left, fluffing up the pillow on the sofa to use. Sir Alex looked disapprovingly down on him from the wall. He tried not to look at the bathroom again, or run his fingers over the mark Jamie had made when he’d sunk his teeth into his shoulder, all red.

 

-

 

The room reminded Gary of the press pens when he’d used to cover football, rows of reporters and a long desk in the front where two men were standing. The one with the perfectly-kept stubble caught sight of Scholesy and raised an eyebrow. Scholesy mimed a punch. The man held his hand at the level of his head then sunk it to Scholesy’s height and smirked. Scholesy scowled.

“Friends of yours?”  Gary asked.

“You could say that,” Scholesy said.

 They jostled through the crowd and ended up in the front row, just in time for Jamie to come out and take his seat. Scholesy’s friends sat down on either side of him. Jamie had changed into a new suit and combed his hair. He looked like something that would never be Gary’s.

“Mr. Carragher has a long day ahead of him and will only take some questions,” one of the men – Xabi, Gary assumed, remembering Jamie’s story – said smoothly. Immediately a host of hands shot into the air.

“Rita Frost, New York Times. Are the reports of your father retiring substantiated?”

Gary tuned the answers out, focussing instead on the way Jamie moved when he talked; his thumb sticking out as he waved his hand around to punctuate his points, the creases on his forehead that got deeper when he frowned, his mouth pursing as it wormed around the awful accent, the way he looked up when he was trying to think of what else to say.

Jamie turned to look straight at him and Gary felt his stomach drop.

Jamie’s expression didn’t give anything away, but Gary had become so attuned to him that he could see the shock and hurt in his eyes. Gary felt his mouth go dry and in his panic decided that trying to blink in Morse code was the answer. As with most things, it was not. All that happened was that he looked like a right idiot, and Jamie averted his gaze.

“Mario Sconcerti, Corriere dello Sport. May I just say we are glad that you have recovered from your sickness. My question is, did you watch the Liverpool match last night, and what did you think?”

A low rumble of laughter swept across the room. Jamie laughed along with everyone else, looking down at his tie and twisting it around his fingers. “I caught it with a friend, actually,” he said, his voice fringed with something that sounded like sentiment. “I thought we played fantastic. Origi was a hell of a threat and Sturridge was bang in form. Of course, Southampton were poor, but it was a very good game for us.” He paused, almost as if he was weighing something up, then looked deliberately at Gary as he said, “To tell the truth, Danny stepping up even after so long on the sidelines reminded me what football is about. Faith and trust in people.”

Mario Sconcerti looked more confused than a foreigner trying to understand cricket. Gary cleared his throat and said, “I’m sure Sturridge would say that your faith is not unjustified.”

The words sounded odd in a Manc accent and the press broke out in another bemused chuckle. The corner of Jamie’s lips lifted as he replied, “I’m sure.”

“Did you enjoy your trip to Rome?” someone else asked.

Jamie turned to look at her. “Yes,” he said softly, his eyes bright in the dim light of the room. It was the same look he’d had on the steps by the river. “I’ll cherish it s’long as I live.”

Stevie choked. Xabi slapped him on the back.

“Despite your illness?”

Jamie smiled now, properly, thinking of a fountain, a sculpture, a scooter. “Despite that.”   

“That will be all for today,” Xabi announced, standing up. Jamie yanked at his suit.

“Eh, Xabs,” he muttered. “Could I meet some of the press?”

Xabi started to shake his head, then caught Jamie’s expression and softened. “Sorry, that won’t be all. Mr. Carragher would like to meet a few of you in the front, if that’s all right, to apologise for missing the previous conference.”

Another murmur. Jamie walked round the desk and shook the first man’s hand as he told him his name. His face was politely blank and he replied with the appropriate words of empty apology. Gary balled his hands into fists and stared stubbornly forward.

“Paul Scholes, Reuters.” Scholesy shook Jamie’s hand warmly and used his other to take out a cream-coloured envelope from his pocket. “Might I offer you some, ah, _unique_ mementos of Rome.” And he glanced pointedly at his watch.

Jamie took the envelope from him, flipped it open to see part of the first photograph and drew in a sharp breath. It was him, glaring at his first cup of coffee while Gary pointed, his face frozen in genuine, delighted laughter. Time seemed to stand still for a moment, almost as if Jamie could hear a Manc in the distance cackling like a little boy. He looked back at Scholesy and nodded, once. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

Then they came face to face. Gary’s lip wavered as he held out his hand. “Gary Neville,” he said, clear as a summer’s day in Rome. “Reuters.”

Jamie took his hand and shook it, squeezed it, held on a second longer than he should have. “So happy, Mr. Neville,” he replied without his voice shaking. Gary tilted his head in acknowledgement and withdrew his hand, and Jamie walked on. _So happy_ lingered in the air even after he’d reached the end of the line, a whisper of promise and forever.

He left the room without saying goodbye or looking back. Slowly the correspondents began to file out the other exit. Gary continued to stand in the front row, hands on the table, eyes trained on the door Jamie had walked out of.

“Gaz,” said Scholesy, and brushed his knuckles against Gary’s. Then he dipped his head and turned around to leave with the rest of them.

Gary waited until everyone else had gone and no one was left in the room except two surly-looking men in suits that he half-recognised. He had a go at smiling at one of them and got a resigned smile in return, as well as a gesture towards his cut lip. Gary mouthed ‘sorry’ and slipped out of the row, one hand on the door.

His phone buzzed. Gary pulled it out as he walked, his footsteps echoing in the long corridor of the villa. United had sent him yet another message about his season ticket renewal, but a thought occurred to him even as he marked it as read. He went to the phone’s menu and clicked on gallery.

Jamie Carragher smiled awkwardly at him from under a cowboy hat, red-faced and looking like he’d rather be dead than in the shop. Gary swiped left. Jamie the Roman scowled, one hand on his fake metal abs that Gary now knew wasn’t too far from reality. Superman Jamie had one hand flung out and the other bent in the classic pose, a sense of enjoyment hidden within his embarrassment. Gary swiped to the last photo. Officer Carragher had his peak cap pulled down low and was leaning in towards the camera, his face scrunched in a horrifying attempt at being flirty, one hand on his hip. Something seemed to come loose in Gary’s throat and he put his phone back in his pocket, masking a smile and a lightness that came to his step.

He turned the corner and walked past the gates of the villa. The morning sun spilled onto his face and he breathed in deep, looking down at the cobblestoned streets of the city. In his mouth he could taste the faintest trace of chocolate gelato.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> RESEARCHHHHHHHHH:  
> \- I stole 'La Torre' and 'DeCavalcante' from a wiki list of mafia families  
> \- Cazzo Inglese is kind of like 'fuck the English'? And 'A fanabla' is 'go to hell'.  
> \- Traffie may or may not actually exist in real life and may or may not be a United t-shirt-clad bear belonging to the author  
> \- Costume party is a substitute for the haircut in the original movie, because Carra cutting his hair is not at all dramatic  
> \- 1982 San Francisco heavy metal band Brocas Helm's Black Death looks like [this](http://www.hrrshop.de/bilder/produkte/gross/BROCAS-HELM-Black-Death-BLUE.jpg)  
> \- Rocca's is the cafe in the original movie  
> \- Deluded Brendan reference!  
> \- All of the locations are accurate; I've been to them heh (srs tho the Spanish steps view is super romantic)  
> \- [U can actually rent the 50 euro scooters](http://www.romarentbike.com/vespa-scooter-rental-rome.html)  
> \- The Mouth of Truth is usually overpopulated with tourists, but let's pretend they don't exist  
> \- I know from actual experience that there are precious few pubs where you can watch Premier league football in Rome (Long story short I wasted a lot of effort just to watch us lose to Norwich) The pub they go to is the [Highlander Pub](http://www.highlanderome.com/%20); it's p close to the river and its website says 'you'll never drink alone' so appropriate  
> Pls appreciate the [lines on carra’s face when he smiles](http://static.independent.co.uk/s3fs-public/thumbnails/image/2013/08/20/11/Jamie-Carragher.jpg)  
> \- The game they watch is Liverpool 6-1 Southampton bc GUESS WHO WENT TO SPAIN ON THAT DAY  
> \- The Scholesy-Xabi punch is a reference to [this moment](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eof5k_XkZjM) bc wtf scholesy  
> \- Quite a bit of the last scene text is copied from the movie sorry movie; title is from the line audrey hepburn says 'rome, by all means, rome' (I couldn't see carra saying by all means lmaoo)
> 
> For my trash squad bc I don't know what I would ever do without you (probably be a normal human being and not cry over trash tbh) (certainly not write my longest piece of writing ever on _Jamie Carragher_ and _Gary Neville_ getting it on) thank you for everything  <3 
> 
> Thank you for reading commenting and so on, always <3


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